A Civil Servant's Monologue: The New Mayor Isn't Normal
I've worked at Yeojin City Hall for three years now. I came in on the administrative track, and I'm currently assigned to the Planning Office.
The previous mayor's first act after winning the election — even before the inaugural ceremony was over — was to pay his respects to the local power brokers. He made the rounds of the region's movers and shakers, corporate executives, and influential politicians, one meeting after another. A round of golf here, a formal luncheon there, the occasional discreet rendezvous in some upscale private room.
Along the way, he'd quietly take the measure of the mayor's 'inclinations,' reading the room. Then he'd confirm who the so-called big players were and start sketching out how city governance would actually be run going forward.
And the internal administration of City Hall? That, he got to know at his leisure. He showed up at the mayor's office, received status briefings from the department heads, and picked up the workings of the administration little by little as he familiarized himself with the business of the city.
That process always ate up at least six quiet months. The civil servants, for their part, took a 'let's wait and see' attitude and kept the mayor at arm's length. How much did he actually know about the work? What was his temperament? How hard was he prepared to push? Everyone watched from one careful step back.
And usually it took a good year before anything concrete actually got off the ground.
But this mayor... this time?
He flipped everything on its head from day one.
The moment the inaugural ceremony ended, he summoned the executives to the mayor's office and, without so much as a how-do-you-do, dropped a list of policies in front of them: This is my policy direction.
"Mayor, this is..."
"This is the policy direction I've settled on. Within one month, each department will review this plan and reorganize it into an actionable roadmap. That's all."
...One month. Was this man serious?
Ordinarily, when a new mayor arrived, the protocol was to wind down the previous administration's projects, review the current state of affairs, and only then declare, "Here is the direction our administration will take." That was the standard playbook.
But this man had walked in with everything already planned out — and notified the bureau chiefs and department heads, no less, that it all had to be sorted within a month.
A policy review of this scale could easily take months. Each department had to examine existing programs and budgets, consult outside experts where necessary, and coordinate positions with the city council.
And this mayor steamrolled right over all of it and nailed down 'one month' as a hard deadline.
The atmosphere in the conference room that day was... how do I even describe it.
Some stared blankly at the documents in front of them. Others swallowed hard. Even the bureau chiefs — men who never lost their composure — were struck speechless.
It was, quite literally, utter chaos.
But there was more. After the meeting broke up, a cluster of department heads gathered in the corridor, muttering.
"What... is this?"
"One month? How are we supposed to organize all of this in a month?"
"This is no joke. Is this mayor actually planning to govern?"
And then, the very next day, something even more shocking happened.
The mayor's office made an official announcement: a full organizational restructuring. Departments would be renamed, and the entire administrative apparatus reorganized around policy priorities.
Yeojin City's administrative structure was a system that hadn't changed in over a decade. Once an organizational chart is set, changing it is next to impossible — because the vested interests between departments are tangled together in the most intricate ways.
Strengthen one department and you inevitably weaken another. That breeds friction among the civil servants themselves, and sometimes even draws pushback from the city council.
This mayor cut through it all with a single stroke.
"Effective immediately, department names will be restructured around policy."
"Reorganize the details of your operations to match your assigned policy areas and report back."
"Maintaining your existing reporting structures is fine, but from here on out, every department needs to move more efficiently."
Fine words. Efficient administration. The problem was... it meant our workload had just exploded.
We were already drowning — and now we had to rename departments, rebuild every policy report from scratch, and construct an entirely new operational framework on top of it.
The mood inside City Hall was pure bedlam.
"Hey, that's it for us. We're finished."
"Meetings are about to double."
"The good old days are gone, man. For real."
We wanted to vent our grievances, but there was no time even for that. Everyone was too busy to complain.
I honestly couldn't tell what this mayor was thinking.
But one thing was certain. This mayor... was nothing like any mayor we'd ever known.
And then there was something even worse.
He suddenly turned a road in the heart of the old downtown into a car-free street. No advance notice. He just closed it.
"This is the first step of urban regeneration."
Look, the man talked a good game — but if this worked out, great. And if it didn't? Setting aside the avalanche of complaints that would bury us, the mayor's political career would be over, plain and simple.
Sure enough, the merchants of the old downtown rose up almost immediately.
"Our businesses are going to collapse!"
"If people can't park, who's going to come?"
"How can you push this through without so much as a consultation?!"
Protest calls flooded into City Hall every single day. The executives were understandably worried — mishandle this, and the city council would seize on it, and the mayor's approval rating would go into freefall.
But this mayor... had no fear. Everyone assumed he'd quietly restore the street after a month or two. Instead, he doubled down.
What was truly staggering was that the mayor himself started walking door to door through the shops, persuading the owners one by one.
Under normal circumstances, the responsible civil servants would absorb the complaints as intermediaries and work the negotiations gradually, step by step...
This mayor simply went out there himself.
"You're saying that without cars, no people will come?"
"But a car-free street may draw in far more people than it turns away."
"Myeongdong in Seoul, Insadong — even the famous pedestrian streets abroad. They all flourished once they went car-free."
He persuaded them one at a time like this, then held town-hall meetings, listened to the merchants who opposed the project, and started assembling alternatives.
And then something strange began to happen. A few of the cafes and restaurants started to change.
Tables began appearing on a street that had once been choked with exhaust fumes.
"Without the cars, it's so much quieter — the atmosphere is wonderful!"
Some shop owners said business had actually improved. Passersby could sit down for coffee without a second thought, and the reclaimed space let them serve more customers than ever.
And then... summer arrived.
More and more shops began setting up tables right in the middle of the street.
"The car-free street has been a godsend for our evening business!"
The mood among the shop owners began to shift, subtly but surely. The ones who had resisted most furiously at the start were now wearing expressions that said, actually, this is better than I expected.
This mayor... he's strange.
There's something fundamentally different about how he wins people over.
And that wasn't the end of it.
Ordinarily, a mayor's resident town hall was a purely ceremonial affair.
The speakers were decided well in advance. Sensitive issues were off the table entirely, and anyone likely to raise a fuss was quietly excluded from the room.
Then the mayor would offer a polite "Thank you for your valuable input," and wrap things up.
That was our image of politicians — until now.
But this mayor? Every Monday, he went out and simply listened to residents. No script, no filters.
"Mayor, please hear me out!"
"Take a look at the road in our neighborhood! Is that a road? It's riddled with holes — some kid's going to get hurt!"
"They botched some construction and ruined everything, and they won't even repair it!"
Some people vented their frustrations. Some raised complaints so absurd they defied belief. And the mayor never lost his patience. He just listened.
And sometimes he'd say something like this:
"This one can be resolved on the spot. Responsible department — confirm it and take action today."
The moment those words left his mouth, the civil servants took notes, and within days, the fix was actually done.
In other cases, the mayor answered directly:
"This requires policy review, so we'll discuss it further."
People didn't believe it at first...
But by the following week, something had been resolved.
And the atmosphere in the city bus division changed overnight. Want to know which office at Yeojin City Hall drew the most complaints? The Public Transportation Division — formerly the Traffic Division, of course.
For the civil servants handling the city buses, every day was a war.
"Why is the bus so late?!"
"The intervals between buses are unbelievable!"
"The drivers' attitudes are a disgrace!"
"Why did you change the route?!"
"Restore the bus service in our neighborhood right now!"
Come to work, and the complaint calls came pouring in. A place where you kept your head down all day and slunk out at quitting time. It was the single most avoided posting among civil servants.
But lately... the content of the calls had changed.
"The new buses are great!"
"The buses are so much cleaner than before!"
What on earth was going on? It all started the day the mayor suddenly declared he would convert the city buses to municipal operation.
The responsible civil servants, naturally, went into a panic.
"Wh-what did you say?"
"Municipal operation?"
"Hold on — the city itself is going to run the buses?"
Yeojin had always contracted its bus service out to a private company, with the city paying subsidies on top. And it was riddled with problems. The bus company ran only the profitable routes and cut service — or eliminated routes outright — wherever they lost money.
The city tried to paper over the shortfalls with bigger subsidies, but with the budget stretched thin, nothing was ever properly managed. The result: longer waits, a route network in shambles, and citizen outrage at the boiling point.
That was the state of a problem left to fester for years...
And this mayor suddenly announced municipalization — and bought the bus company.
"Effective now, Yeojin's buses are operated directly by the city."
He actually did it.
Bus complaints used to be nothing but abuse, day in and day out. But a few weeks after the city took over operations, the calls started to change.
"The drivers are so kind. It's lovely!"
"Could you explain the new bus routes for me?"
Where abuse and complaints used to make up ninety-nine percent of the calls, inquiries were now on the rise — and elderly residents were even calling in to compliment us.
The civil servants in charge stood there dumbfounded.
"What is happening?"
When the municipalization was first announced, everyone was certain a catastrophe was coming. The staff had never operated a bus system in their lives, the budget was a question mark, and the private bus companies might well have fought back.
And yet, looking at the situation now... somehow, it was working.
I assumed at first that this mayor was just a political novice barreling ahead without a thought in his head.
But the more I watched... the clearer it became that this was different. This wasn't reckless brute force.
He executed policies at a breakneck pace, like a man who had already run every calculation in advance. Before the municipalization took effect, he analyzed the existing routes and drew up measures to shore up the unprofitable ones. He hired some of the private company's drivers and ran service-improvement training on top of that.
He even rolled out small, visible changes quickly, so citizens could feel the difference for themselves.
That's why the attitudes of the people who had resisted were turning.
"Huh? This is actually pretty good."
This mayor... what exactly is he?
A man in his late twenties, who'd been running a startup of his own, suddenly becomes mayor — and with zero administrative experience, how is he moving this competently?
How long can he possibly keep up this pace?
City Hall is a madhouse right now. Everyone is working themselves to the bone, policies keep raining down, and before we've had a chance to file one report, the next task lands on our desks.
"The good old days are gone."
These days we don't even have time to complain.
Because nobody can spare a second to catch their breath.
What's going to blow up today, I wonder.